


whatever, whenever

by Anonymous



Series: this town needs guns [1]
Category: Lunch Club (Podcast), The Misfits (Podcast), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Gen, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-12-31 06:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21091943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "so. we're in a bit of a bind, i won't lie." schlatt steeples his hands under his chin, drinks in the sight of wilbur's bandage and repeats himself distantly. "a little bit of a bind."signature smirk overshadowed by concern, cooper turns from his analysis."understatement of the year. welcome back to the land of the living, will - we're in hot fuckin' water."---things are looking grim in 2049, and wilbur soot is newly employed. something's stirring in the depths of the affectionately nicknamed symp city, and after a breathtakingly stupid sequence of events it becomes his job to figure out what. you'd think balancing fragile gang politics and his growing online presence would be enough to deal with, and yet...in a world of impossible feats, intricate conspiracies and some downright pretentious twats, our hero just can't catch a break. armed with only a winning smile and unimaginable genetic power, wilbur's been thrown headfirst into the kind of salient conspiracy that threatens everyone left on a corrupt and dying planet.so really, what's new?(these are alternate universe, heavily fictionalised caricatures for the purpose of fiction! we respect creators in this house.)





	1. wilbur soot is doing fine

snobbery abounds in the academic world. that said, anyone well versed in the rich tapestry of english literature will be familiar with the works of edgar allan poe - and, by extension, be acquainted with the cask of amontillado.

at a glance, this well-trodden patch of prose is a simple character study and nothing more. through the eyes of our narrator (the honourable and pleasant montresor) we see the rightful vanquishing of an entitled prick with a penchant for vintage wine.

but that's not quite the truth, is it?

wilbur soot takes a good long gander at the knife in his leg, and decides in a brilliant moment of gcse literary analysis that montresor was a grade-a twat. that, or he's going into shock from massive ongoing blood loss. there's also that.

upon reflection, he almost would have preferred montresor's basement graveyard. from his admittedly disadvantaged position, our hero's best guess is one of those soul-sucking high-rise car parks that always charge more than you have in your pocket. you know the ones. he knows the ones. all he can see is stone and sky.

those, and one more thing. the lurid crimson stain seeping through his nicest jeans. that's not a good sign. his brain skirts around the issue, avoids examining it too closely, and that's not a good sign either.

it's a third foreboding omen that he can see at all, wilbur realises with a slowness that agitates him even more than the fuckoff knife embedded in his thigh. they don't take off the hood if you're supposed to live.

adrift in a syrupy solute of frazzled nerves and nearing hemorrhagic shock, he can't even twitch to safety. the effort of trying saps him dry. his head lolls uselessly onto the concrete with a resounding thump.

needless to say, wilbur soot is not doing so well. this is the secondary location, motherfuckers, and bittenbinder is long gone.

which might be why when the call comes through it takes a moment to muster even the strength to blink. even his facial muscles are starting to slacken with steadily approaching exhaustion. absurdly, he's embarrassed by the drool.

some part of him is dimly aware that time is running out. the comforting teal overlay slides down over his vision, but before he can force his lips to move-

"fuck it, last building. i'm seeing eleventh floor, i'm seeing blue zone." vaguely he registers cooper's voice, frightening in its loudness and uncharacteristically harried. "they've blown the cameras like he said, but...madi's out. ted, leave me alone, this isn't your-soot's totally down. shot or stabbed, i think. can you try-"

he wants to say thank you so goddamn bad. it's only polite. it's a thousand slights, a thousand insults, but he's moving through molasses. every sound is dulled, except a heavy thud in his ears that won't ease. he can't identify the source.

wait. a viciously triumphant whoop cuts through the soupy air, billows through his tired miasma. it reeks of chaos and concern and adrenalin and he can finally relax. they've found him. they've found him and everything's okay.

somebody's shaking his shoulders, but he's too relaxed to tell them there's nothing to worry about. honestly, it's fine. why can't they see that he is literally just vibing, that's the real question here.

god. he summons the strength to open his eyes, if nothing else. they close soon after of their own accord, but the last thing he sees is schlatt's worried and blood-spattered face. and won't they all just get a kick out of that?

"you weren't ready." carson is more animated in real life. that's the first thing. he moves faster, talks faster, blinks more. as for the second thing, he is unironically furious - something that wilbur has never seen before and doesn't really want to see again - and paces around his basement office with menacing purpose, visibly bristling.

braced unsteadily against the wall, he himself can only listen and wince as his bandage bloats slowly creeping red.

"you weren't ready, wilbur. no offence, but who the _fuck _put you on patrol?"

they both damn well know who put him on patrol, but - even after a night and day of the best meds credits can buy - the melodrama is a comfortable routine to establish.

so wilbur spreads his hands, helpless, and carson glares at them sullenly as if trying to divine meaning from the lines he finds there. the anger is starkly eerie, stretched across his jovial features in a kind of slapdash lacquer. was he always this alien, and wilbur just never noticed?

"i tried my best, honestly. if i hadn't twitched, maybe-"  
metallic hands wave off the excuse with an abrupt noise of contempt.

"no, no, i'm gonna stop you right there." carson twirls a crushed pencil around one finger idly, seemingly unaware of its destruction. wilbur attempts valiantly not to stare.

"it's not your fault typs can be assholes. seriously. they would have just taken someone else. clearly it was someone wanting to send a message," he turns to the neon cityscape beyond the window, "and they've certainly done that."

wilbur blinks in stunned agreement. carson seems to soften minutely; he nods at him in the glass with slightly upturned lips and without any fanfare, disappears. the door closes itself with an audible _pop_.

carson king might be young, inexperienced, questionably sane, unquestionably terrifying and frankly the first turn wilbur's ever met who doesn't work for the misfits, but despite it all he's a good guy. or maybe that's pushing it.

'good' or not, at the very least he's goop's rightful leader. which officially includes wilbur after the car park debacle, or so he's been assured by at least three different flattering subordinates.

how handsome his coattails appear, how pretty now that they dangle like carrots in front of every other person here. he buttons up his jacket with a shiver and leaves the mixed metaphor to stew.

before even trying, it's obvious that twitching back upstairs to the infirmary won't work. normally it'd be child's play, but right now just walking around normally is a challenge. even goop-level medical care can't reverse a killing stab wound in a day. plus ted would temper it in an instant on the doctors' orders, and that would really sour wilbur's wine.

so instead of hobbling back to a hospital bed and sleeping, he doubles back to snag carson's litechair and floats slowly upstairs to almost the very top of the tower. the big bucks. conference rooms, a fancy podcast setup and servers with more power thrumming through them than anyone could ever use. somewhere in this labyrinth of high-access corridors is a room of unresolved gratitude and almost-friends, almost-employers.

it takes three tries to find the right one, but apparently cooper, schlatt and travis saved his goddamn life between the three of them so he wants to thank them properly. he'd rather talk to them than ted right now, anyway.

the door informs him they're online when he gets there. augmented, not immersed, which is a shame. it would be nice to walk around for a time.

as it is, he blinks awake his lens and asks it to join the 'room. the turquoise blur shifts into full colour after a moment, and there's a certified funny haha moment when the ar rig can't figure out how his legs work when draped over each other in a litechair. the interface on his lap clips through the floor in confusion, which is nothing if not objectively hilarious.

anyway, he's procrastinating. noodle limbs aside, he's ready to open the door. so he does.

it's mostly the same as the other conference rooms. the only notable differences are the brighter colours and the funky background music emanating from seemingly everywhere. it's more tasteful than he would have expected, to be frank.

on further inspection, cooper is glaring at some kind of hologram. the table is shoved up against a wall behind him as almost an afterthought. schlatt still has his streaming model overlaid, horns nestled around his ears in what he has in the past assured wilbur is a serious feat of digital satire.

not the most creative netroom, but he's a diehard fan of the "don't walk into walls that aren't there" design philosophy. it invokes travis.

the same travis who is still engrossed in something at his computer, the very same who yelps a startled noise when wilbur taps him on the shoulder. there's an awkward beat, but he wheels around to face him with a complacent grin of acquaintance. wilbur grins back, and when their chairs knock together? it feels just a little bit like home.

"hey! one sec, i've got a thing here...' a brief pause, a pang of anxiety - is he distracting them from their jobs for no reason?

apparently not. travis takes off his headphones and stretches.

"there. so, i'm glad you're feeling better already!"

"same here, dude," wilbur quips, too dry. the barb wasn't meant to sting. after all, he still doesn't know travis that well (despite deciding in the moment that he'd like to). he needn't have worried. it goes straight over his head, by the looks of it. "how are the boys?"

"uhhhm. good question." score. still, perfection takes a moment. travis might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but he's the best damn trace in the business and a veritable empath even without his powers. apparently cooper and ted have a bet on whether he's getting paid at all - wilbur personally thinks he could buy out their birth certificates and burn them without making a dent in his wallet.

he's always been an odd case, travis, even from the distance afforded by celebrity. so youthful and yet so powerful. like, the whole drawback of traces was always the possibility of detection, but when you're this bloody good...there. the smallest whisper of another person's mind pressing up against his own, and one that wilbur only notices because he's actively digging for it.

their powers don't mesh well, and he's exhausted, but at the very least he can detect a friendly presence ambling around in his grey matter. the use of his twitch sends a sudden sharp pain through his temple, and the world lurches in spiderweb silver.

travis frowns, shifts his attention elsewhere. his face scrunches up with the effort. "carson's pissed, i feel like. he asked me not to trace his head, but i don't think he's been turning all morning because he's, like, happy and relaxed. ha, hm." he abandons the joke before it can even fall flat, balls a fist on his armrest. wilbur, feeling a tad voyeuristic, averts his eyes. "uh, ted is tempering me from even getting close. but, just based on that, i think he's still upset over the raid."

schlatt looks up from his own computer at the last word, and wilbur very assiduously doesn't react as travis rubs a nervous hand around his neck. with his eyes closed, flickering back and forth under quivering eyelids, he looks uncharacteristically alert. it's endearing.

"noah and charlie are scripting something downstairs," he continues, oblivious to schlatt's black hole of a glare. "they seem happy but i promised i wouldn't look too hard..." he tails off with a shrug, and when his eyes flutter open they have a dreamy far-off look under the sea of dark curls.

"as for you, you won't be able to twitch for...at least a couple days. you gotta take it _easy,_ okay?"

he nods. more than a little grimly. it's far from okay. in fact, it feels like travis has just told him to take it easy on eyesight or taste. they both know this but there's really nothing more he can say, so they exchange placid nods and that's that.

catching sight of schlatt's leg bouncing impatiently against the desk, he gives travis a parting thanks and speedwalks over to the most familiar face in the building.

"hey." nonchalance oozes from schlatt's every pore, but wilbur isn't fooled. silly as it sounds, there's raw concern under the goofy curling horns. it's hard to tell under the dumb goat model, but he seems exhausted. "so. we're in a bit of a bind, i won't lie." he steeples his hands under his chin, drinks in the sight of wilbur's bandage and repeats himself distantly. "a little bit of a bind."

cooper turns sharply from his analysis to face them, signature smirk overshadowed by bemusement.

"understatement of the year. welcome back to the land of the living, will - we're in hot fuckin' water. it's driving carson up the wall, but he won't even talk to me, so..." he gestures wildly to what wilbur recognises as some kind of local holomap. fluorescent markers dot the streets, but he doesn't recognise the map interface or what the colours mean.

it must be obvious on his features. cooper sighs, clicks his fingers and zooms in on one highlighter-yellow splash. the resulting cloud of camera footage sprawls out quickly. "thirty-two simultaneous attacks; definitely more unreported. some of them were on family gangs, for christ's sake. shit's nasty."

wilbur chews on a nail nervously and lets the worry wash over him. he hasn't heard from junky for days, and the news that someone's targeting the kids doesn't sit well with him after what happened with soothouse. he tunes back into cooper's rant.

"-so it's something organised. it's something tactical. they're looking for something we we don't have. i hate to say it, but it's gotta be the misfits. schlatt-"

"who is in fact a genius, and always right about these fucking things, that's what you pay me for-"

"-is the only dipshit who thinks it's not. come on. who else in symp city has firepower like that?" he pulls up a short clip of...well, what remains of a nearby gang's little brownstone on juno street.

juno street. wilbur knew those girls. the j-laws, they thought that was funny for some reason back when they were dealing and it somehow stuck.

they did well for themselves, just half a dozen inseparable jennifer lawrence posers busking in a rented brownstone. sweet, stupid idiot girls (musical talent aside) that had always been kind to soothouse and really to everyone else. it's a miracle they lasted this long.

nobody in their right mind would hurt a gang like that, if only out of respect for supply and demand. they brought in tourism, they smiled genuinely, they were somehow owed some kind of favour or protection by every major group in a two-mile radius.

he remembers the year of the crash, when one of them - three? five? - gave rhianna that eyeshadow palette for christmas. she cried all christmas eve, and they were hungry on the day, but dan wouldn't let her sell it, even though she said it was fine, even though it clearly wasn't, but she looked so fucking happy at the simple click of the case, and-

he watches cooper switch the feed away from the smoking crater and says nothing.

"no rhyme or reason," schlatt says for perhaps the fifth time in three minutes. "straight up destruction. tell me that sounds like fitz, i dare you. tell me that sounds like something toby on the goddamn tele would do, cooper. holy shit."

wilbur scoots his chair over to inspect the pattern on the holomap as they squabble, winces at the rush of air on his bandage, and shakes his head. god, he needs a haircut.

"yeah. that doesn't make any sense, dude. even the misfits don't have that kind of money," he points out to cooper's abject dismay, "and noone else even comes close to goo-i mean, to us."

schlatt sing-songs something darkly under his breath. it sounds suspiciously like, "suck it monkeys, i'm goin' corporate," and he follows it up hurriedly with "not you, travis," when his head whips up over his computer. cooper drags a hand down his face in exasperation and groans a long-suffering groan.

"it's not a corp, fucknuts. what do they gain from-"

"i'm tellin' ya," schlatt growls. his keyboard clacks angrily under his hands, and he doesn't turn around to face them. "this isn't the misfits. they're not that slick, and they're not that thick." he picks up speed, talking with none of his usual quiet humour. "cooper, you can suck my -"

the debate kind of devolves from there. overwhelmed, he ducks out of the shouting match before travis can catch on and wrangle them into an awkward failure state of olive branches and apologies. someone yells after him, and he pushes the chair to go faster.

wilbur's room is in itself an egregious misnomer. it exists as a kind of liminal space, like an abandoned five-star hotel room - he's living out of the same battered suitcase he always has. there's more money in it than there used to be.

the only marginally personal effects he's had time to display are the nice guitar he bought (almost legally) with his first goop paycheck and a gimmicky light-up clock from jack. it's the only reminder of soothouse he's had in weeks.

he floats into the room that has his name on the door, he rags the curtains closed in a burst of anger, he lets out just a _little_ of the frustration that's been brewing all day into a single brazen shout.

there's an odd sensation of being mocked when the clock face washes his setup in cool light, and then after a moment he's alone in the dark.

the perfect time to stream.

he tweets it out under the groundbreaking title "minecraft sting wars and BIG announcement", sets the standby model off spinning and waits.

the usual suspects flood in first, a flattering but mildly concerning subset of his fans that seem to live for his online presence. there are more than a few posers among them, unsettling devotees that wear his face and adore him unconditionally. it's good camouflage in the streets, but they freak him the fuck out nonetheless.

after the junkies come the regulars, the newbies, the mods, the occasionals. a veritable fireplace of soot enthusiasts old and new, seduced by his cryptic promise of a serious psa.

"good evening, every_body,"_ he smiles, mussing up his hair, ratcheting up the charm. he needs to be happy right now, and this channel is like his own private dopamine well. "you lot are the real ones, i tell you that. 3am streams with wilbur, that's what we're on tonight!"

it's a delicate position he holds as one of the net's resident darlings. word choice and reactions are more important than the authentic part of him would like to believe. required in the process is a kind of delicate touch he hasn't quite tried to master yet; it would be at odds with the amateurish and slightly bizarre branding that got him this far. he makes mistakes sometimes, that's all.

"sorry for the impromptu day off," he replies to a concerned donor, bats his eyelashes coquettishly at the main camera with just enough irony to avoid crucifixion. "recently came down with 'stabbed', you know how it is."  
  
he shouldn't have said that. rather than the expected sympathetic titter, there's a bitter clamour of anger in the chat that worries him. at least now whoever ran those attacks knows he isn't scared, for what that's worth.

"and that's coming in from slimmerox - am i saying that right? i think so. yes, slimmerox, i am in fact still playing minecraft in the year of our lord 2049. you want fortnite 3 streams instead, huh? i'll do it. i will do it-"

yeah. for what that's worth.

"that is an extremely gracious depiction of my hair, lirielle. thank you so much! honestly i really need a haircut, this is a hats-on zone until then, hah-"

he doesn't bring up the stabbing again.

"good news!" he pipes up about half an hour in, batting away bee bombs with practiced ease (and an iron sword with sharpness II, which is basically a diamond sword, he swears there's no difference, please stop calling him a boomer for missing the ore, this is a fine sword and he's gonna win, he's _not_ a boomer, seriously.).

"i've got some massively good news for you all hanging out with me tonight. good for me, anyway. i hope it's good for you as well, 'cause that'd be nice."

throwing the match takes a moment, but then he can switch to facecam, he can berate chat for whining about lag as his setup renders in all three lovely dimensions. bad internet won't be a problem for him anymore, anyway.

"after a lengthy probation," he winks, "i'm proud to announce my official acceptance into goop media as a featured creator."

chat loses its shit twice in two amorphous, cresting waves. first an anxious fear of a risky prank, then the booming realisation to the contrary as he keeps on smiling and doesn't call the bit. his views rocket dizzyingly skywards as half the citizens of symp city tune in to what is now one of the most reliable news networks in the shield. holy fuck, that's a lot of people.

it staggers him, at least at first, just as the others had said it would. the sheer volume of flattery and cheering and credits and gifts is...a lot. god knows it's always going to be a lot.

affecting a look of humbled glee that isn't that far from how he actually feels, he pulls out the guitar and plays a couple cutesy songs better than ever. riding the high, if only for a moment, he tells the legalised version of how he got his hands on it with lots of exaggeration and ridiculous noises. in a burst of maudlin inspiration, he thanks the audience for the opportunity to buy something so nice for himself. yikes, that sounds disingenuous. he freezes up.

there's a flash of guilt, a few pregnant seconds, and...the response is riotous. they're lapping it up, they love him, finally, _finally,_ they adore him and it's so fucking intoxicating that wilbur thinks he's going to die.

of course things dip for a moment when he drops his controller and twitches them back into the haptic gloves, but that's to be expected. the simple movement sends pain blossoming through his head. he keeps his face carefully neutral at the twinge, but winces at some of the words people begin to use. prejudice runs bone deep, he supposes.

even acknowledging the instant littering of slurs his mods are mopping up, it still feels like a dangerous amount of power for him to wield. he wraps up. he does it quickly and loudly, before he can inadvertently hit a milestone on stream and then have to deal with that at four in the morning. maybe that's selfish. maybe he's allowed to be

he decides on a whim that it would be appropriate to raid connor's art of hope speedrun. zelda games aren't really his jam, but the sprawling magnitude of the raid is indescribable. with a bit of luck, he can watch back the reaction later.

and there he goes. one last time, he waves and beams. chat moves far too fast to glimpse more than a word or heart. in silent anticlimax, the motion tracking collapses into a single glimmering point of light and shuts off. he is alone in the dark yet again.

he nearly, nearly twitches into bed before remembering the pain of just picking up the controller and letting it go. of all the handicaps to have right now, he has to admit the inability to walk properly does not pair well with the inability to fucking _teleport._

scooting miserably over to the bed is demeaning enough for one night. he lies down, tries not to get blood on carson's chair, fails, shuts his eyes.

it's a nice bed, but sleep still doesn't come easy. holy shit. he's in goop. major stabbings and minor interpersonal drama aside, he's made it.

william gold, that grubby little hacker kid under sparse familial protection, would never have predicted this in his wildest daydreams of adventure and luxury.

editor will of soothouse could never have hoped for this something like this, not in all those sleepless nights establishing enough of a net presence to put food on the table.

wilbur soot is doing fine. he's made it. and he can rest easy, finally, knowing deeply that nothing could ever ruin this.

he falls asleep happy.


	2. died by the living man

everything's ruined.

he hits the ground running. running in a forest, in a real fucking forest with real plants that whip against his legs like bundled wires. the trees are gorgeously verdant things, but he can't catch more than a glimpse of each; he's busy running faster than he's ever had reason to run. 

it's desperate and directionless, his mouth thick with blood, and he curbs the urge to spit because they'll taste it on the air, they'll find him, they'll know, where's the river?

_there's a river?_

there is a river, just ahead of him, so breathtakingly cold this far outside that ice forms at its edges in deadly clumps. into the water, up and over and hup, there we go.

now he's wading over pebbles, and the pebbles are sharp, and little ribbons of red begin to flutter through the water alongside the moonlight but it's okay, it'll throw them off. they're so close behind him and he can hear the strangled snarl of an angry canine and he's out of the water and he's home free.

of course it's in the hopeful moment - bubbles of euphoria welling up, seeing the soft blue of the shield through the trees - that he falls.

"i've gotta hand it to you, kid." incredulous and gleeful, a voice he doesn't recognise slithers around his neck like a noose. with it comes a dusty, long-fingered hand. "you really did try." he feels the fingertips prod against his slender throat with predatory intensity, and also just possibly the handle of a blade. they must have had a trace, he's an idiot, he is an _idiot _and he is actually going to die here breathing unfiltered air under untainted skies.

"you gonna twitch, huh? you gonna run a little further?"

and no, he can't, and they _know_ he can't, somehow, and he can't fucking see suddenly, and slavering jaws close around his leg like he's a fucking animal, like the filthy little twitching rat that they know him to be-

jolting upright in bed, wilbur soot nearly sprawls onto the floor. catching himself with one leg on the mattress and one hand on the carpet, he spits a curse at a cheerful greetings card. it doesn't reply. 

three days worth of similar get-well-soon gifts have accumulated at the foot of the bed, and this is the third delirious nightmare he's been ripped from since his leg went nebulously bad. he runs a hand through his hair and it comes away slick with sweat. ugh.

what fucking stupid dream logic, anyway. forests like that don't exist anywhere near the shields, do they? of course not.

first, he remembers turning off his lens and the miserable distraction-free silence that had followed. then staggering up to the infirmary, hands twitching in the more typical sense. not much else permeates the haze of that first day, just pain.

of course there are vignettes of visitors that dance in the back of his awareness. carson's watchful gaze, mainly, peppered with schlatt's restless worry. although for the whole three days of slipping in and out of consciousness like a man on a mission to die, he hasn't caught a glimpse of ted nivison.

which is fine. of course it's fine. they're not exactly best friends, after all. however, at some point they need to talk about what happened and (although he'd rather die than admit it) wilbur is still slightly intimidated by the sheer breadth of ted's power.

see, he's never actually met a temper before. it feels like a bizarre social faux pas to even be in the same room as one, even though he's not like in the movies; wilbur has to remind himself that there's absolutely no threat in this affable guy who makes wacky content and likes funny jokes and _left both of us for dead in a_ fucking_ car park_. who cares that if ted really wanted to, he could extend this numb powerless state forever and there would be nothing wilbur could do?

and that's real funny, because there was a time when he would do anything to never be able to twitch again.

anyway. there's only so much entertainment in the bite of antiseptics and the buzz of fluorescent lights. more prevalently, the wellbeing of every citizen of symp city all but relies on healthy gang relations. it's no secret at all why they wanted him in goop as much as they did, after all.

wilbur's always been diplomatic, ignoring his semi-aware blunders on stream. he's the kind that's good with words, and loved for it online. not to mention young, on the cute side and (most importantly) unproblematic representation for the atypical community. he knows how to play that particular game with the best of them.

all of that's _almost _enough of a reason not to get him in trouble with the medics when they find his crutches gone and his bed cold. he'll bloody take it.

"where are you going?"

shit. the other half of _both of us_ is awake.

this is the second worst thing about not being able to twitch - he has to stealth around like a goddamn trogolydyte. like a rabbit caught in headlights, he pauses in shrugging on his coat and smiles at madi weakly.

"doctor's appointment," he lies through his teeth, buttoning up the jacket to his throat as if to evade phantom hands. her eyes follow the movement, observing. "gotta sign for my meds, you know?" 

an age seems to pass as madi sits up and untangles her blankets. she cradles her bandaged head and offers the ghost of a smile, even as ted's ongoing absence wreathes around their beds like choking smoke.

at least there's an inch of camaraderie between the two of them now, hard-earned from that traumatic night. being literally glued back together in a moving vehicle, for hours, by doctors with more tools to use than words to say? it builds some kind of bond, that's for sure.

the kind of bond wherein wilbur looks at her, with wide and innocent eyes, and they both know he's lying.

the nurses' dorms are just across the hall. all she has to do is scream and he'll be back on morphine for days. he shakes his head, just once, in silent asking. _please._

"okay," madi says slowly. the suspicion in the slant of her shoulders gives way to exhausted resignation. "say hi to ted for me if you see him, alright?"

she's letting him go. she's letting him be involved, and that's all he's ever wanted. it's all he can do to flash her a grateful grin and limp out of the room, feeling her curious gaze burn into his back until he turns a corner and breaks into a run towards the stairs. after abruptly tripping over nothing no less than thrice, he reconsiders.

waiting for the lift to arrive gives him a moment to reflect. why is he so desperate to be a part of this miserable conflict? it would be so much easier to slide back into sleep, push pens for a week or two and pick up his next paycheck.

but juno street. but junky. but the crash, but soothouse, but war, but the law, but a real untouched forest with real untouched trees. he bundles the crutches under one arm, fumbles at the wall with the other and hops into the lift.

the boardroom is in chaos. this time its reality is totally physical, and uncomfortably so - slim glass databooks and even some old papers are strewn across the table in teetering piles. seven pairs of tired eyes barely notice his entrance in favour of fatigued bickering. ever the exception, travis smiles at him blearily from where he hunches over his notes. somehow he's maneuvered himself to perch on the back of his litechair. it wobbles intermittently in the air to try and reconcile the imbalance.

nobody else seems happy. carson and noah are arguing in nominally level tones over requisition forms, so wilbur slides into a spare seat quietly and tries to parse what the fuck exactly it is he got out of bed for.

"we're asking the misfits for a public meeting," charlie whispers by way of greeting, passing wilbur a databook to add to their plan. the current graphic is a sprawling mind map around the word **misfits!!** and most of the contributions are scattered around a branch labeled <strike>negoshi</strike> **it's negotiate you moron**. wilbur's thigh pulses disquietingly at the latter.

"ah. do you know the where and when?" charlie's face lights up for as moment, as if unsure whether or not to be enthused. wilbur knows him as the resident techie, universally agreed to be hilarious if a little eccentric. he's also inordinately typical.

not that that changes anything.

"yeah, actually!" he says. "town square, tomorrow. we were going to do vr, but it's just..." he shifts uncomfortably and cards a hand through his hair. "carson says it's really serious, and he's kinda right. a lot of gangs lost a lot of good people, and everyone left is blaming either us or them."

goop or misfits, the two biggest benefactors of the city. one biting and enigmatic, one open and overzealous. the choice seems obvious, but here they are. "that sounds pretty ominous. i almost wish i'd stayed asleep if we're going that far just to talk."

at that charlie titters, albeit goodnaturedly enough, and gestures to a random booklet of what to wilbur looks like just so much dense legalese. the pulp paper is flecked with the residue of a thousand recyclings, and elucidates absolutely nothing.

"why do you think we're still in here instead of out calming people down? josh is running the food bank today, but we've got to stay away from any possible revenge parties. this can't go wrong. plus we have all the normal weekly shit to go over, and...well. carson's really spooked over there."

his glasses fog over with a call and he winces apologetically. the conversation is abruptly ended as he begins to debate with someone very loudly about peacetime import tax. incensed, wilbur scans the chickenscratch plan for his own name - and very quickly finds it. oh no.

he aches to twitch away and have a quick sobbing session in the bathroom, but there's no running away from this. in the depths of feverish stupor, he's been picked as the negotiator in a conflict that could end in the leveling of a shield and maybe just a smattering of nuclear war.

so yeah, that's fun.

carson brings back everyone's attention effortlessly, even with the discontent roiling around certain parts of the table. fatigue drips from him like a blotted signature. it's not like wilbur would know what qualifies as healthy with carson king, though, so he shuts up and listens.

"so. we still don't know what it is that the misfits think we have. could be a weapon somebody's stored, redistributed supplies, uh, a poi held for ransom..."

there's a movement to his right. ted, working his jaw quietly. after a moment, he looks up from his tablet with a blank expression. wilbur holds pleasant eye contact with him throughout carson's speech, but his face gives nothing away. 

the strands of his powers and travis' mingle on a plane only a turn or typical could ignore, a paired sword and shield of gentle probing and formidable defence. ted's still angry, and wilbur doesn't have to be a trace to see it.

_we're all friends here,_ he reminds himself. sure, ted made a bad decision in that car park. but there's no time to hold grudges when the delicate dynamic of government and corporations and gangs hangs in the balance. which is to say, absolutely no governmental involvement needed. if they're not careful here, actual law enforcement from the other shields might start paying attention. 

let's just say some developments would be bad for everyone.

"madi says hi," he mouths as a peace offering, but ted's face twists into a pained grimace and he thinks maybe something got lost in translation.

"it's pretty simple," carson is saying. "put out a public notice, evacuate a few blocks. then we'll just head in and wait for them to turn up."

looking a little more sheepish than necessary, noah narrows his eyes and raises a hand.

"how do we know they'll actually turn up and not just blow us off?" he asks bluntly, twisting his hands to accentuate the next sentence. "what if they just kill us? if they did do this, i mean."

carson snorts and casually curls one hand through his databook's screen. nobody looks at it for too long except charlie, and even he flushes when schlatt gives him a warning tap.

"of course they did this. who else? noah, dude, don't you even worry about it." he smiles broadly, and everyone relaxes just a little. "i'm absolutely sure they'll turn up."

they don't turn up.

or at least not until wilbur regrets his clothing choices, recent job applications and the risky decision of being born. it's far too late at night for his dopey fluffed up hair to be free from a hat, and especially for the floral shirt. perhaps the calculated kicked-puppy look wasn't the way to go in this weather. it doesn't really get too far from lukewarm under a shield, but damn if it isn't irritating for a group of people who spend so much time inside.

even schlatt, decked out in his ridiculous schlatt 2050 merch, has stopped trying to cheer them all up. his silencer clicks into the rare quiet as he fiddles with it. the streets are predictably empty, a one-night only perimeter maintained by both sides' best and brightest.

_click. click._ schlatt's face is totally obscured by a cybermask of constantly shifting hue and shape, and when he catches wilbur looking his grin is strained and stiff on pinched feminine features.

so it's not an exaggeration to say that when fitz strides out of the opposite alleyway, the air crackles with tension.

he's tall. suave. angry. he hasn't even bothered with a cybermask of his colourful persona. it's not easy to tell with the infection still working its way out of wilbur's leg, but he can just about twitch the dull impression of other people behind the dingy brickwork.

their arrival was sudden and without warning, which means they all turned specifically to get here hours late. isn't that a little rude? to be able to literally control time and then not be on time? wilbur thinks it's just a tiny bit rude.

although his connection to them is understandably patchy, the strands of power barreling through the moonlit street sit just barely within his awareness. half a dozen turns in one place, plus goop's ragtag bunch of all four flavours of freak; it's a lot to keep track of.

it must be weirder for ted and travis, judging from the way they briefly stumble at the misfits' entrance. travis can only read four minds here, and they're all on the home team. plus he and ted can sense everyone's powers more strongly than wilbur ever could - hopefully they aren't too overwhelmed.

the only other person actually using their powers seems to be ted, maintaining what looks like an exhausting shield against travis' constant check-ins. the trace avoids wilbur for the most part, clearly conscious of his wound, but catches his eye in the normal way at intervals to make sure he's not panicking too much.

travis needn't have worried. he was made for this.

behind fitz, the other misfits have filed out onto the street. grim furrows line every face but toby looks particularly on edge, hand twitching over her holster with nervous energy. it's probably all show. of course her biggest weapon is her turn, just like the rest of them.

with a final unreadable glance at her, swagger flashsteps from the alleyway to the middle of the road. wilbur takes that as his cue to stand forward as well. he glances at the slick puddles by swagger's boots and notices the waxing moon.

"look." he's somehow shorter in person - not exactly out of proportion, but he barely comes up to wilbur's shoulders. they make an odd silhouette against stereotypes, a lanky twitch with almost a foot on a turn. "i didn't want to be the one that had to say this," he taps the helmet as if in deep thought, "but all of our friends have fuckin' guns on each other and an honest conversation would be real sweet right about now."

wilbur nods shortly, and then remembers where he is and breaks into a winning smile.

"totally." he would normally soften his voice as much as possible, but it's just not soft subject matter. "we just want to know why you guys knifed my leg, concussed madi and firebombed our own city. something like that would be sweeter." ted's temper swirls angrily behind him, and travis literally coos over him like a concerned mother hen.

"yeah, well-wait. what?" swagger takes off the helmet and blinks both glowing eyes. they're impressively detailed prosthetics, and their light shows that despite the coif he looks legitimately taken aback. he bears a passing resemblance to sans, which is a reference only wilbur's mum would find funny. "naw, we didn't do that. you did that."

"no?" wilbur glances back for confirmation, and noah shrugs in abject confusion. carson looks amused, if not particularly surprised. "no, i'm pretty sure we didn't...do those things. we thought you did them. that's kind of why we're here?" the statement stumbles off into a question. jesus, will, get your act together.

schlatt, fitz and carson still glare openly at each other but the others seem a little lost. ted holsters his gun and vsibly mulls the situation over. mason mouths something at cooper and they both let out a surreptitious chuckle. the self-imposed rivalry is breaking down, which is great for them, but not so great for wilbur's negotiation. this needs pulling back together and fast.

"they obviously did it," schlatt mutters in a way wilbur recognises. it's the tone of a man who's taking matters into his own hands. it's a tone that rarely precedes anything good. "explain this," he says, walking over despite the immediate shifting of gun barrels and pressing a stack of papers into fitz's hands. if wilbur was listening any in the meeting, they're their alibis.

suddenly mason appears, practically on top of fitz, and glares around at everyone. clearly unsatisfied by the scene, he sighs hoarsely and flickers back into oblivion. nobody really bothers to chase it up; turns are just like that.

fitz instantly reels back and drops the papers, and at least five guns train themselves on schlatt's mask. his face is stony and unchanging, even as it shifts through age and colour and androgyny. he crosses his arms and stands his ground at wilbur's shoulder.

"mmfh. jush a papercuh, no 'ig deaw." sucking on a finger, fitz waves them off and backs away from the pile. toby darts over to scoop them up and rifles desperately through the pages, holding them up to the light of a neon graffiti tag.

"all seven check out," she calls, brisk and consoled, letting her hand finally fall from her gun. fitz shakes his head and all but snarls at her.

"no, they don't. they can't! guys, we're dealing with literal murderers here!"

mason reaches towards him, ostensibly worried by fitz and his own appearance, and schlatt picks up the paperwork with round eyes before scurrying back behind noah. they murmur in low voices over something, but wilbur just stands stock still. time has never been his thing, it's always been space and always will be, but something very important is about to happen. and it's about to happen here. or...not quite here.

an innocuous patch of concrete draws his eye, and after a beat swagger stops shifting nervously and follows his gaze in puzzlement. fitz, carson, wilbur and swagger stand together under the blue-tinted light of the moon, the others in shade as they whisper and sigh.

bile rises in his throat, and he opens his mouth to tell carson that they need to leave. now.

"look, man, it's fine. it's clearly all a big misunderstanding. we can sort it out, see who really did this to our city and kick the shit outta them! together!" ted, voice raised across the street, makes a good point. 

wilbur couldn't have made it himself, he realises, what with his purposefully nonthreatening aura and the crutches and _especially _the floral shirt. he flashes ted a grateful quirk around the eyes, receives a thin smile in return. call it progress.

matt whoops in solidarity and travis breathes a sigh of relief in wilbur's direction. even ted shifts into a more relaxed stance. almost everyone seems mollified, but there's still at least one person on each side who isn't smiling.

the leader of goop takes a serious step forward.

so does the leader of the misfits.

wilbur watches himself fall as if from above, winces as his crutches clatter against the cobbles. that particular point in space is so important, it's like it's calling to him. this hasn't happened in years. something pops against his thigh and he sincerely hopes it's just the bandage.

he still can't twitch away, so settles for scrambling backwards on his elbows and arse. there's blood on his jeans for the second time this week, and somebody is shaking his shoulders for the second time this week, and he can't summon the power, he can't get away. something is shortcircuiting inside of him, and he wants nothing more than to reach inside his head and tear it out.

fitz stops trying to shove him into responding and stomps over to the nearest member of goop, a terrified-looking charlie wielding a gun the size of his arm. fitz looms over him, and something shatters on the concrete with a glassy tinkle. what are they doing over there?

"i know you did it, you're going to...you're going to pay for what you did to, uh. to...?"

the conviction fades from his voice and he sinks to one knee. wilbur really doesn't have the presence of mind right now to infer anything from it. scrabbling at the cool brick just to stand up straight, one thought rings true. something very bad is going to happen, very soon, and it's in the spot fitz just moved into. 

fitz? cameron? whether or not he's still in character is unclear. the other turns are beginning to realise as well, not the where but the when, all drawing back involuntarily as he dithers in place. mason disappears for a moment and then returns, a sigh dying on his lips. none of the others attempt it.

"oh, fucking cunt," carson whispers, leaping back from the misfits' side of the road as if burned, and cooper does a double take at the language. they crouch next to wilbur as the misfits press themselves up against the opposite wall, motioning the other five away from their secretive chatter.

swagger understands too now, and locks eyes with him in silent warning. their glow is menacing in the darkness of the alley, and their message is clear; they may all be friendly enough now, but if goop does anything, _anything-_

and that's about when schlatt finally steps into the road, squares his shoulders and shoots cameron twice in the head.


	3. nothing of note

a lot of things happen in a very short space of time.

there's no other word for it; ted _lassoes _the misfits in an outpouring of power the likes of which most tempers could only dream of. nothing discernibly changes in the air around them, but as wilbur soot tries not to vomit on the corpse of cameron mckay he keeps himself well out of reach.

the crutches are still in the street, abandoned and bloody in an artist's perversion of roadkill. numbed by cameron's death, he reaches out to carson for help.

his new boss ignores him to join the rest of goop, slowly plodding over to where they huddle around the body. his face is slack with horror as he watches ted's power bloom around his old friends, but from the rest of goop's expressions this was the plan all along. their reactions range from disgusted to relieved, but none are surprised. fitz was schlatt's _friend,_ for god's sake. what the fuck is going on, and why aren't he and carson a part of it?

still disoriented from the fulfilment of the...for lack of a better word, prophecy, the misfits lurch in circles like smoked bees as ted's temper subsumes the magic in the air. their plight is familiar from the depths of his own unexplained sickness, and that makes it even harder to watch.

"i'm just trying to understand how this happened," carson says dangerously, quietly. his hands flex reflexively around nothing, almost as if he's gathering his composure in tangible handfuls of self-control. "trying to see the how and the why here. why you just did that. wh-why the fuck _did_ you do that?"

schlatt crosses his arms, defiant. the others back him up, uniformly stone-faced. and still, nobody has come to help wilbur stand.

swagger tries to turn and is predictably buffeted back into the present. he tries again, and then again. once more and he's kneeling as if in prayer, hands darting to the balaclava and coming away bloody.

in the dramas it's always described as a _wrongness._ as the debilitating sense of something important that has been lost. they say it's like an unwanted amputation, the unpleasant prickle of sensation from nerves that no longer exist.

at best, it could be likened to being able to see a secret colour and then losing your eyes. at worst, they call it utter and nauseous dysphoria with one's own physicality. for an atypical, everyone knows it's the worst feeling in the entire world.

wilbur knows how lucky he is. for the most part his twitch only bothers him when he tries to use it, and he's been adjusting to this for a week with the help of a boatload of drugs. still. even when he chooses not to use his powers, it feels like being cuffed over the head with overwhelming constancy.

of course, the misfits are all turns. in stark contrast to his tag-in relationship with space, they are intimately and permanently intertwined with the passage of time - just like carson. with absolutely no warning and his formidable temper forcing their power back on itself, ted should have destroyed them already.

his mistake? he overlooks the girl who's intimately familiar with the worst feeling in the entire world.

sobbing virulently, toby staggers away from the group and throws off the safety of her gun. the shot may be reactionary but her aim is cruel; she wants him to suffer for this.

somehow she doesn't miss, and schlatt curls silently around his stomach as he falls. it's hard to reconcile goop's smooth-talking man of business with the...the boy splayed out on the road. he rips off the mask and spits at her, catlike. he cries out and pushes cooper's hands away and wilbur dissolves.

he is shape and pattern and colour. he is the exact metric dimensions of the street and he is the exact diffusion of the roadside graffiti's dazzling light. he is the incarnate of everything, he is somatics made manifest, but most importantly he is the exact material composition of the bullet lodged under the coronary ligament of schlatt's liver. 

shapes. patterns. colours. red pain flaring into his head and red fire tonguing at his bones and red blood soaking through gag merch and red and red and red.

"hold it!" carson screeches in ted's direction, audibly confused. wilbur snaps back into being like a dog at the end of its chain and promptly collapses. every nerve ending feels separately and repeatedly abused. his twitch screams bloody murder in the back of his skull, and he may as well join the misfits in their agony because the worst feeling in the world is clawing its way through his brain like cotton. his senses are all out of wack, and his friends look so far away... "shit, i said _hold it!"_

charlie ignores the three of them, and keeps shooting wildly at toby until carson wrenches away the gun and twists it into so much scrap metal. their glasses are wet with tears. "ted, stop it!"

wilbur himself doesn't feel a change, weakly pawing at his head to shake the dead patches from his vision, but everyone else straightens like a storm has passed. attempting futile emergency care or watching the recovering misfits like hawks, six out of seven goop members don't notice him curling up. number seven does.

schlatt looks at him and begins to laugh. it's a wild and gurgling and downright manic cackle of esprit du corps, and it hollows even wilbur's good leg into inaction. the others manage to rip their eyes away from ted and the misfits to try to hold him together, except for travis. travis...

well. travis just screams, a single warbling warning note of concentrated anger, but as wilbur slips into the soft darkness jay struggles to his feet and-

no. wait. no, i don't think he does. sorry about that.

_sometimes, wilbur forgets exactly how collectively powerful goop are and what role that played in making them the gang they are today. ted's bitter outburst is one thing, his own improbable surge of strength another. but he is reminded of that massive staying power - viscerally and unavoidably - as carson clicks his fingers and that shit just _stops happening.

where was i? ah, yes. i remember now.

a lot of things happen in a very small space and time.

there's no other word for it; ted _lassoes_ the misfits in an outpouring of power the likes of which most tempers could only dream of. nothing discernibly changes in the air around them, but as wilbur soot tries not to vomit on the corpse of cameron mckay he keeps himself well out of reach.

the crutches are still in the street, abandoned and bloody in an artist's perversion of roadkill. numbed by cameron's death, he reaches out to carson for help.

his new boss ignores him to join the rest of goop, slowly plodding over to where they huddle around the body. his face is slack with horror as he watches ted's power bloom around his old friends, but from the rest of goop's expressions this was the plan all along. their reactions range from disgusted to relieved, but none are surprised. fitz was schlatt's _friend,_ for god's sake. what the fuck is going on, and why aren't he and carson a part of it?

still disoriented from the fulfilment of the...for lack of a better word, prophecy, the misfits lurch in circles like smoked bees as ted's temper subsumes the magic in the air. their plight is familiar from the depths of his own unexplained sickness, and that makes it even harder to watch.

"i'm just trying to understand how this happened," carson says dangerously, quietly. his hands flex reflexively around nothing, almost as if he's gathering his composure in tangible handfuls of self-control. "trying to see the how and the why here. why you just did that. wh-why the fuck _did _you do that?"

schlatt crosses his arms, defiant. the others back him up, uniformly stone-faced. and still, nobody has come to help wilbur stand.

swagger tries to turn and is predictably buffeted back into the present. he tries again, and then again. once more and he's kneeling as if in prayer, hands darting to the balaclava and coming away bloody.

in the dramas it's always described as a _wrongness._ as the debilitating sense of something important that has been lost. they say it's like an unwanted amputation, the unpleasant prickle of sensation from nerves that no longer exist.

at best, it could be likened to being able to see a secret colour and then losing your eyes. at worst, they call it utter and nauseous dysphoria with one's own physicality. for an atypical, everyone knows it's the worst feeling in the entire world.

wilbur knows how lucky he is. for the most part his twitch only bothers him when he tries to use it, and he's been adjusting to this for a week with the help of a boatload of drugs. still. even when he chooses not to use his powers, it feels like being cuffed over the head with overwhelming constancy.

of course, the misfits are all turns. in stark contrast to his tag-in relationship with space, they are intimately and permanently intertwined with the passage of time - just like carson. with absolutely no warning and his formidable temper forcing their power back on itself, ted should have destroyed them already.

his mistake? he overlooks the girl who's intimately familiar with the worst feeling in the entire world.

sobbing virulently, toby staggers away from the group and throws off the safety of her gun.

carson takes wilbur's aching head in both hands and slows time to a crawl around them.

"listen to me. twitch, now, or schlatt's going to die," he says. except he doesn't say schlatt. he says a name that begins with j that..isn't actually the right one, but it's the thought that counts. he's sweating like he's just run a marathon and there's a haggard, haunted look in his eyes. "i can't do it. they won't let me. i can't help him, i-"

wilbur doesn't hesitate. he reaches down into himself for the pitiful spark of power that's left, elusively small in its potential, and pulls schlatt roughly to him as time crashes back into its natural pace.

toby's shot may be reactionary but her aim is cruel; she wants schlatt to suffer for this. it is not by the shaking of her wrists that she misses, and the bullet ricochets off the road where schlatt was just standing with hollow grandeur. she is the image of vengeance as she struggles against the temper. she's fighting to keep a visual on a target that isn't...anywhere.

there's a moment-  
a moment of abject horror where he thinks he's dropped him, he's lost schlatt on the atomic level and they'll never get him back-

suddenly he's on top of wilbur. there's nothing romantic about it, just a terrified tangle of arms and legs and blood. they extricate themselves with immediacy and schlatt slings high-pitched obscenities in every direction.

wilbur groans and humours him, but every nerve ending feels separately and repeatedly abused. his twitch screams bloody murder in the back of his skull, and he may as well join the misfits because the worst feeling in the world is clawing its way through his brain like cotton. his senses are all out of wack, and his friends look so far away...

another wretched bullet whizzes past his ear, and schlatt hurls protest hoarsely across the road. meanwhile carson is stunned, barely moving to protect himself as the other goop members swear and dodge.

"don't shoot! that's not fitz! toby, that's not fitz! it's not him! don't-"

blackout. curtains. a brief intermission. perhaps someone shifts the spotlight to stage left, or moves the setting downstage. we'll get back to wilbur when he's useful again, but meanwhile i'm sure we have a script around here somewhere. let me dig something out for you to read.

**SCENE 1**   
**EXT. SHIELD DESIGNATION SMP1173 "SYMP CITY"**

_Aerial shot of the northern sector of the shield, focusing on the abandoned and decrepit larger buildings. Music swells appropriately as we pan to street level, graffitied and lively. The camera sinks past holoboards to the dusty road, where bare feet sprint by in play. Laughter is heard._

**SCENE 2**   
**INT. SOOTHOUSE BASEMENT - DAY**

_The camera pulls back through a tiny window, blue-tinged sunlight playing over the wood grain of a coffee table. Sofas surround it, and a holoprojector is hunched under the low ceiling. Whilst the expensive equipment imbues the room with a decidedly cushy feel, set dressing wear and tear should be sufficent as to suggest only tenuous financial stability._

_PUSH IN towards the doorhandle as it rattles. We see the torsos of RHIANNA and WILBUR as they enter, bantering quietly about nothing in particular. She is short and tired; he is tall and tired. They are playing Pokémon Dusk on sleek handheld devices. Both the game and consoles are outdated, but they do not appear to mind._

RHIANNA: Okay, sure, but it's adorable.

WILBUR: The thing-the thing is, Rhianna, listen to me - that doesn't make it a good Pokémon. It's basically just a necklace. That's a _household item,_ dude.

RHIANNA: Eh, loads of them are household items. Think of that old one, literally a bunch of keys, what the hell was that about-

WILBUR: _(interjecting)_ En garde! Battle my lift key and you may take my pocket money!

_They laugh. Enter CHARLIE, carefully balancing three hot drinks. He is not quite so tall, or quite so short, or quite so tired. Nonetheless, he is equally cheerful._

WILBUR: _(acknowledging CHARLIE)_ No, yeah, I just wanted to talk about something before everyone else gets home.

_RHIANNA glances at him for a moment, caught off guard by the change in tone._

RHIANNA: Something? As in a good something?

WILBUR: In theory, yes!

CHARLIE: Ooh. Don't like the sound of that.

WILBUR: _(through laughter)_ Shut up. You know how I've been volunteering at GOOP?

RHIANNA: _(absently)_ Yeah, I think you mentioned it once or ten times. Charlie, can I get some sugar?

_The three of them perch on a plush leather sofa, worn beyond resale._

CHARLIE: Sure, no problem.

_He scoops up RHIANNA's mug and stands, pausing to prepare a joke._

I mean, only if you want to p-

WILBUR: _(interrupting)_ They've asked me to move in.

_CHARLIE and RHIANNA freeze. WILBUR does not meet their eyes as the tinny game music continues to play. We see his face in nervous profile as he attempts to clarify the sudden bombshell._

WILBUR: Like, into the tower proper. Schlatt put in a good word and-and, wow, guys. I think they really like me.

CHARLIE: _(offscreen)_ Damn. How-I mean. Hm.

RHIANNA: _(offscreen)_ That's...that's really great, Will! Well done!

WILBUR: _(relieved)_ Oh, thank the lord. I was so worried you'd, I dunno, be pissed at me for it?

_He twitches his console onto the table to lean down and hug RHIANNA. She pats his back awkwardly and exchanges a look with CHARLIE over his shoulder._

RHIANNA: No. We wouldn't be, I promise.

CHARLIE: Yeah, like, I don't think it'd be fair if we were. I streamed three different games yesterday, and none of it was anything to do with SootHouse.

RHIANNA: It's kind of dead in the water, I guess. Everyone's busy now with...school and things. Streaming. Work.

WILBUR: Okay. Okay, yeah! We've all got our own projects. Who says we all have to live together?

_He slouches back into his seat contentedly. Notably, he is still the tallest person in the room._

RHIANNA: For sure! You're busy, it's fine.

_She picks up her game with unnecessary force. CHARLIE retreats towards the door warily._

CHARLIE: I'm going to get that sugar now-

RHIANNA: _(interjecting)_ Thanks, you're a sweetheart. Will, milk?

_He doesn't reply and points to his eye apologetically; someone is calling him._

WILBUR: _(offscreen)_ Jesus, Schlatt, you scared the shit out of me. Turn off-yeah, turn the funny mic off, funny guy. Funny as the first hundred times. Alright, how are you?

RHIANNA: Will?

sorry to interrupt, but i think we're back.

wilbur wakes to the comforting feeling of a gun pressed to the nape of his neck. or comforting is perhaps the wrong word, but...familiar. it's the wildest kind of emergency brake, from supernatural brawling to good old-fashioned violent crime. say what you will about the british communes, they really never looked back on gun control.

so it's no big deal, it's nothing more than adrenaline, not until the thrumming of the engine beneath them rattles on a gust of wind and his eyes fly open. oh. 

cooper's lift is cramped at the best of times, but with all eight of them in only six seats things are looking downright illegal. it's an impressive car, faster on the whim of the air than anything on four wheels. never before had wilbur less appreciated its luxury.

"i really am sorry about this," someone says coolly from behind him. wilbur turns, slowly, and lets his gaze drift from the gun to ted's tired, tired expression. "but we're fresh out of extractors, so i have no idea who i'm talking to right now." the shattering glass. cam's grisly dispatch. things start slotting into place, but he still doesn't have all the pieces.

"what...what do you mean?"

"will and carson saved my life," schlatt chips in stubbornly from the front seat. since when are they not using stage names? "they're themselves, or i'm a fucking moron. how stupid do you think i am, nivison?"

nobody says anything for a moment. he takes in the emotional carnage, carson's listless expression in the back right seat, accepting and silent. schlatt glances up and smiles at him tentatively, then jerks in the air like a puppet on a string and whips around to travis. "get the _fuck _out of my head!"

"i was just trying to cheer you up!" the trace sounds hurt, but a slack-jawed charlie edges away from him into wilbur's side nonetheless. wilbur pats him awkwardly and realises he's behind here, somehow. even cooper's hands tighten around the wheel. the suspicion in the air is so thick you could slice it, and the worst feeling in the world has yet to subside. he gulps, and reality slants as his adam's apple bobs painfully mere inches from ted's gun.

"you're talking to wilbur. who else would i be?"

"a poser." even turning around awkwardly, halfway on schlatt's lap, noah still looks fucking furious. "a poser like the one who replaced fitz under his best friends' noses. if it could happen to a misfit, it could happen to any of us."

so their original terrorist problem isn't solved, and now they have an even bigger mess to clean up. _never a dull moment_, wilbur decides dourly, and nobody talks and nobody breaks the silence and nobody says a goddamned word.

grizzly waves them through security cheerfully enough, unaware of or more likely unbothered by schlatt's face or ted's guns. they've migrated to his lap instead of carson and his extremely vital organs, which is a good sign. he probably wouldn't use them in the car anyway, right? right?

then carson takes travis aside in the car park, and they all have to sit and listen to the awkward chastisement that ensues. the absurdity of it is only compounded by travis' finger on the trigger as carson berates him.

"what was that? we have contracts, travis. you can't just, like, make him happy because you feel like it should be that way. that's not your choice to make. that's not your call."

"i..."

cooper eyes the handbrake and sighs.

"look, i'm really sorry. that's never happened before, i didn't mean to-"

"travis, dude, you can't just say sorry and brush it off. it's not even me you need to apologise to! you totally violated schlatt's agency. that's, ugh. that's just not on."

schlatt glares at the floor murderously.

"vial-viola-i don't even know what that means! he was thinking about you dying, about you losing, and it was...it was really bad, okay?!"

noah scratches at his beard, looks out the window and coughs.

"was it, now? you're the one pointing a gun at me! why do you think that's okay?!?

ted blinks rapidly like he's texting someone.

"i don't, i-because you might not even _be_ carson!" there's the harsh crackling sound of boots dragged sullenly over gravel. "you're certainly not _fucking_ acting like it!"

charlie winces and shuffles away from the empty window seat like he's trying to melt into wilbur's arm, before ted clears his throat and he jumps away with guilt written across his features.

"we should do this inside," noah says dully to nobody in particular. "loading bays, nobody will be there this late. early. whatever."

this is going to suck.

"heya, tommy. can you put me through to altrive? thanks." schlatt leans against the concrete wall, a fascimile of casual. a beat. "alright, thank you so much." another. "just dna extractors, please. yeah, a pack should do it. loading bay four, i'll explain later. you're a gem."

dejected, maskless, he looks at carson with a cartoonish frown and the kind of genuine contempt wilbur has never had the opportunity to witness. his own mouth is dry, so he licks his lips and gambols less than gracefully into self-defence.

"look, guys. you're all being weird about this. i'm netways wilbur soot, legally wilbur gold, by birth william spencer gold. i love cats, real ones, and i'd do anything to see an orca. i still play minecraft maps from like the twenties, because i think they're quaint. and i really like apples, when i can afford them, they've got this wonderful crunch, and-" he is interrupted by a pneumatic hiss.

when altrive unlocks the doors, he is backlit starkly in suspicious silhouette. the dim industrial lighting and the shadows cast by pallettes of cargo are not enough to obscure carson and wilbur's subjugation, sitting back to back with wan faces, so he takes the time to press a pack of syringes into schlatt's arms and then crosses his own.

"i'll tell you what, this better be good."

his voice pierces the uncomfortable quiet as schlatt prowls towards wilbur, and the distrust in that normally amicable face spurs him into speaking again. the growing alacrity and anxious pitching of it sings in itself an admission of wrongdoing, but he has to try.

"okay, just, wait. the last time i called you before i moved in. you were beating yourself up about some gay trace kid who sent you something for theweeklyslap? it was something that you couldn't use, something shitty and dark that you wouldn't even tell me. i've never heard you cry before, or since."

schlatt falters in his advance for only a moment, but phantom guilt wells up in wilbur all the same. what if he really isn't himself? more realistically, what if that ridiculously risky twitch back there fucked him up on such a base level that his dna won't be recognised at all? they'll mourn him and swear to avenge him even as they scrape him off the floor.

inevitably, though, the needle sinks into his arm. he lets it happen without further complaint, blinks away the nip of pain. schlatt pulls back like his hand is on fire and slots the vial into a metal canister. 

the only sound in the room is breathing. no sirens, no screams, just the anxious in-and-outs of these people he has decided to trust with all of himself as schlatt keys something into the extractor, waits for the ping back from the department of records and...and thumps him on the back with trembling hands.

"i'm fucking shaking," he whispers into wilbur's ear as they hug, fingers twitching with august restraint. "holy fuck, i'm so sorry."

then it's carson's turn. something about the way he grips wilbur's elbow, even though it's as gently as his frigid hands will allow, says it won't be pretty. his first thought is _since when is carson king scared of anything?_

his second is the memory of those aggrieved and shining eyes, burdened with something baleful and foul.

"please, please, don't make me do it in here." it sounds like serious fear. "i can't get needled in front of people, ted, you _know_ that, i'm begging you."

altrive turns on his heel and leaves. cooper looks ready to follow, but ted evidently does know what carson's talking about in some way wilbur doesn't; he looks uncomfortable at the pleading and motions stiffly towards the service bathroom. their boss and friend scurries up the ramp like a man possessed and all but dives inside. after an awkward minute he reappears, face wan but holding a syringe of blood gingerly.

it checks out.  
they're all themselves.

"we are literally the most scuffed excuse for a gang in human history," carson mutters semi-sardonically, and there's an uneasy wobble of air before everyone laughs. it's an odd word choice, to be fair. but when they do laugh, it's a good one. no wild and howling burst of relief can take back what happened tonight, but it can perhaps distract from it for a while.

so that's how the morning sanitation crew find them there in the loading bay, lying about in the loosest definition of a circle and laughing at dumb shit on their lenses. travis and schlatt sit back-to-back in one corner and murmur, looking genuinely too exhausted to argue or sue each other or whatever it is mature adults do after grievous telepathic assault between friends. wilbur's not touching that one with an eleven-foot-pole.

"god, i hate kids," carson chokes out through giggles - noah and cooper join him in laughing uproariously over some new trend going around twitter. he hovers by their side uncertainly.

soon enough ted and charlie coax wilbur into singing with them, giggling and riffing off of each other like there's no tomorrow; like there are no forms or funerals waiting for them upstairs.

but hell if there isn't an evocative kind of kinship to those few short hours, a fragile bubble of platonic affection that he hasn't felt since the golden days of soothouse. he feels as if, perhaps, after this is all over and the dead have been mourned, that symp city is going to be okay.

until he gets a call from junky janker, and reality makes itself comfortable yet again in the hastening of his heartbeat. for fuck's sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a pleasure to be back. chapter four at 6pm gmt this saturday.


	4. this self-imposed cell

nicolas cantu has the look of a man who has seen war.

it is at odds with the boyish face, framed as it is by unkempt curls and dappled with freckles under a layer of dirt. slouching over a fire escape like a golden palace balcony, the grief of ten men weighs on the shoulders of an infant atlas and he stares.

he stares fiercely into the middle distance with an intensity borne of conflict, and the sun begins to rise over a pit of debris deeper than his home is tall, and he holds out a cigarette.

"i don't smoke," says wilbur soot. it is a paltry offering to the silence. he feels out of place here, as he should. next to this, he is lofty and other and irretrievably adult. should he take the smokes? they're not good for anyone, but especially not grieving hormonal gangsters. maybe he can accept now and bin them later.

"yeah, i know. neither do i." with a quiet and inscrutable chuckle, junky flicks the unlit cigarette over the edge of the crater with two fingers and leans against the rail to watch it twirl in the air. "just thought it was kind of funny. or dramatic or something, i don't know." for a moment, wilbur thinks he's going to hoist himself over the brittle metal disappear after it. instead, he dusts off his hands and turns away from the wreckage.

"wilbur, they're fucking angry out there. they're angry, and they're scared. if they see you here-"

"mate, you invited me." keeping his tone level is its own challenge. they dropped everything for this on the assumption of its urgency.

"i had no choice. like i said, there's this new kid, and..."

he drags his hands down his face in a mimicry of teenage angst. wilbur doesn't envy him this, and obligingly crouches out of street view. not much a disguise will do for you when you're six foot five and dress like a drowned victorian orphan fresh from the noughties.

"did you hear about juno street?" he asks tacitly, jerking his head vaguely northwards. what he really wants to ask is, _why did you want to talk alone? what do you want to achieve? are you mad at me?_

"fucking awful," nic nods, rubbing at a smear of dirt across his cheek. a flush of self-consciousness climbs under his own pristine turtleneck. "that's when i knew it couldn't be you."

"wait, you thought we...that i would do something like that?"

"well, maybe!" immediately defensive, nic won't meet his eyes. "i really don't know. nobody knows who did it, right?"

"i swear, i wasn't even awake." he punctuates each word with a blink, balancing on his haunches. he still comes up to nic's chin. "i got stabbed in the first wave! i passed out, nearly died! and nobody was interested in telling me anything, let me tell you."

"yeah, well." junky drags a finger through the ash on the railing and pads soundlessly into the building instead of descending the stairs. there is no sympathy in his voice when he calls back, "welcome to my world."

as soon as they're inside, he pulls a crumpled black bandanna from his pocket and offers wilbur another. he refuses thr rag, albeit politely enough, and junky snorts.

"suit yourself, tall-ass. don't come crying to me when you keel over."

it is almost pervasively dusty in the jankers' apartment block. a concerning amount of unwanted soot has drifted in from the ruined next street over, but there's the worrying impression of more important jobs to do than clean. as nic wrestles open the door to the stairwell wilbur makes the fatal mistake of opening his goddamn mouth.

"look, before we go back down. can i wire you some credits? get the younger ones anything? everyone at goop feels really bad about what happened, even though it wasn't strictly our fault, and-"

a shutter slides down behind nic's eyes.

"actually, i think you've all done quite enough. when's the last time you made a public appearance, again?"

"look, i'm just trying to help without getting shot." _what am i supposed to do? _should he stand on a street corner preaching the peace he wants until it's generously gifted by a bullet in his brain? "i know you're proud of what you've made here, and it's super great, it really is, but at the end of the day you're all still kids and-"

the famed actor, prolific online comedian and extremely capable gang leader that is nicolas cantu turns on the stairs to face him with creaking disbelief.

"i'm gonna forgive you for that," he says, winking at speed into his lens, "because you are just as kind as you are stupid. i really do like you, wilbur. you're a good friend! and a good man. but don't you fucking insult my family like that ever again."

and wilbur comprehends, in that moment, deep in the reaches of his soul, that junky janker will never forgive him for what has happened to symp city on his watch. "come on. we've been gone long enough."

he nods, and he finds himself unable to meet those storm-grey eyes over the lip of the bandanna. 

anyway, carson's never been great at reading the room.

"lengthy chat," he observes lazily, surrounded by a loose horseshoe of junky's more junior lot. they're all well-fed, all seem cheerful, but not a single child wears clean clothes or appears less than extremely tired. they don't seem to mind, enraptured by whatever exaggerated story carson is telling. "you guys all good?"

"much better without the chaperone," nic snaps lightly. "can we go? packed schedule. after all," his gaze lingers on carson for a second, "we're stretched pretty thin at the moment. come on, people, border agreements aren't about to finalise themselves."

either carson is an idiot or the shrewdest man in the world, because he takes junky's hand and pumps it with oblivious delight. as he stands the kids melt away to their more mundane work, and wilbur has never felt so egregiously lanky. a dozen small forms flit past him with disproportionate maturity and he feels ready to go in more ways than one.

"of course, junky. always a pleasure."

it's been only a couple of days since the misfits debacle. as far as the press knows, they've all "put aside their differences" or thereabouts, entirely in the name of "uniting our shield in the face of such horrific terrorism." matt was particularly proud of thaqat one.

of course cameron mckay, who is reportedly ill, was unavailable for comment. rumour on the street is that someone tried to poison him on the way to the meeting, which is _really not important, it's not relevant right now, no siree it is not_.

nic gives them a little background as they make their way to the residential floors, the climb interspersed with terse orders and milder requests to jankers out in the field.

"he's only fifteen. exhausted, so please go easy on him. only just came in from the port, actually. best goddamn strategist this side of thirty, but his shield is...different."

"different," carson repeats, and it's guarded. "you said his parents kicked him out?"

"eh, you'll see. basically they found out he was-well, it's special circumstances. i figured it would be better to get acquainted with you guys," he knocks on a nondescript door, "and not take all his information from me. i mean, obviously i'm an ally, but still. you know. not really my area." awkward stretches accentuate his agitation, and for a second the child junky might have become unveils his anxieties to them. after an instant, he shakes his head and it's replaced again by stoic unflappability.

"for now, he goes by grunk."

the kid who opens the door looks almost as nervous as wilbur feels. under an initial shock of white-blond hair, he's deathly pale with mauve bags under his eyes. it's hard to ignore how tidy and unblemished his clothes are in comparison to the other kids'. he squints wildly between nic and the two men, draws back as if to slam the door.

junky, addressing him in the tone of voice usually reserved for scared pets, subtly steps into the gap. "hey, hey. they're nice, i promise. at least say hello?"

"hello," grunk mutters dutifully. he turns to the two of them with trepidation and a growing flare of recognition. "are you here to fix it?"

carson's eyebrows only raise a fraction before he breaks into a smile. "fix what?"

"they don't really have turns where he comes from," nic explains quickly, placing a comforting hand on grunk's shoulder. he strains away from it dleicately but doesn't protest. "or twitches, or tempers. pretty much just traces."

_but that can't be right_, wilbur knows. of course there are societal trends, but the mutations are coded to emerge at the same rate in children no matter what. twitch if you're unlucky, turn if your parents couldn't afford to check past that, trace if the universe hates you and temper if you've won the lottery of shit. that's basic state-mandated education.

no, for a whole shield to only have traces wouldn't just be improbable; it would be completely impossible. without some kind of widespread genocide, anyway. _wait._

"i'm sorry! i promise, i don't know what i did." grunk misinterprets the disgust creeping onto wilbur's face and settles heavily on his bed. like everything else in the room, it is conspicuously clean - more holding cell than home, more hotel room than haunt. "dad kept acting like he'd caught a watchdog, so i figured i must have done _something._ but i promise i didn't ask for this."

carson stops time around the two of them habitually. it's so sudden that wilbur feels the slick touch of bile rise into the back of his mouth, though that might have been the slur. watchdog, simply dog, pick your poison. real cute wordplay with just a pinch of plausible deniability sprinkled in.

"jeez. i'm not the only one who thinks this is fucked up, right?" carson looks physically grey, like he's remembering something nobody should have to recall in the goddamn 2040s.

"you're bloody not. what have they done to him?" wilbur, who can relate, doesn't ask.

frozen in the apex of an anxious huff, grunk looks poised to bolt at any moment. if wilbur could bring himself to look any closer, he'd bet his bottom credit on there being bruises. scars. perhaps, with some combination of powers and technology, they could find something deeper and less visible. perhaps they'd find something to make wilbur's blood boil.

everyone knows the southern shields are more traditional. that's fine. but even with twenty-three years of progress and slurs and beatings and shitty familial interactions under his belt, he simply can't imagine living in a shield where they just kill the fucking kids.

"they have weird net censorship down there," carson interrupts his speculations, deep in thought. "i doubt he's even self-taught, never mind classically trained." 

wilbur is great with children! this is gonna be fine.

"this is gonna be fine. i'm not classically trained either, but here i am." time starts chugging along at its normal pace. grunk looks utterly harrowed by their sudden jumpcut, which is not a fantastic start. wilbur turns to him with an approximation of a welcoming smile. "sorry about that. i think nic wanted us to give you a crash course in being, you know, magical!"

through some great feat of nature, carson muffles his snort under a cough. nic's bandanna shifts declaratively, and the nervous tension around grunk fractures minutely.

"okay, zoomer."

"actually i was, haha, i was born in the twenties!" so maybe wilbur isn't exactly _great_ with children. 

carson, however, pretty much despises them - so it's a surprise when he falls into the role of mentor like he's been waiting for the opportunity.

"ignore wilbur, he's just nervous. so, what's it like back home?" grunk's lip curls marginally at the last word, but at least carson has his full attention.

"HVN1203," nic corrects quickly, as if the damage isn't done. "they call it, uh, haven."

"uh, it's busy. there's...there's always something to do. look, do you two know where i can find a church? i haven't had a hearing in ages."

"a what now?" hopefully carson isn't as lost as he sounds, because wilbur has no idea what he could mean. instantly the kid looks suspicious, if not offended. what with the hair and the voice and the green sleeves of his baseball shirt, wilbur realises that he might have drmatically undershot his development.

"you know, like," he frowns, "confession. the priest looks at your brain, checks over your sins, makes sure god knows to forgive you properly and stuff." 

the adults stiffen. nic averts his gaze sadly. grunk clearly mistakes their horror for disappointment and rushes to keep talking, to satisfy them. "no, it's not, like that-to tell you the truth, i don't really wanna go. i don't think she's going to forgive me at all for this one. no offence, mr. king."

"none taken. we're just not all that religious in this shield, i suppose." carson's next question is blunt. "you do know that there's nothing wrong with you, right?"

grunk doesn't answer. his face is an open book as he fiddles with a loose thread on the duvet. it is the only thing in the room that could be called imperfect or out of place, and when it snaps it he looks soothed even as carson soldiers on.

"well, i'm doing fine. being a turn was scary when i was a kid and people thought a little differently, but now it helps me out all the time! isn't it useful, wilbur?"

"oh, absolutely," wilbur agrees wryly. "i don't know what i'd do without my twitch." 

carson shoots him a look that straddles apology and exasperation.

"so, grunk. what do you know already?"

"not much. scripture stuff. turns control time, twitches control space, traces control people," - the phrasing makes wilbur flinch involuntarily, and he's suddenly glad that travis...couldn't come - "and i think tempers can fight the other ones? i'm not sure."

"you're close, but not exactly," carson says gently. "less control, more...interact with. i'm very lucky that my turn is so straightforward. once i knew a girl who could only go back in time - she was so cool. spoke nearly every language left, and a few more than that."

poor, dear, sweet, precious pokimane. the less said about her, the better.

"lucky?" breathes grunk, rolling the word around in his mouth like an unpleasant new flavour. he doesn't seem to have noticed the past tense. "i, i don't...it's not lucky. it's not lucky at all." he taps out a rhythm on the bedclothes and looks at his fingertips with mournful distaste. "i don't want to be rude, but it's the unluckiest thing in the world." 

and carson flounders for a moment, just a moment. internalised self-hatred like this is something they all go through, but wilbur doesn't know how to contribute when the sufferer is fifteen and displaced. he's not a therapist.

"sure...sure it's lucky! come on, i'll tell you all about it. i can show you all the cool sh-all the cool stuff turns can do." carson inches away from the door, lofty and other and irretrievably adult, and he holds out an offer of metal and madness. the boy on the bed looks up at the proffered hand, nods tightly and takes it.

they disappear, with a quiet _whumph _of displacement. junky coughs, and though wilbur can't judge his expression under the fabric he can surely take a guess.

"so are they going to be long, or-"

and they're back.

a fried-food kind of smell cuts through the impersonal new furniture scent. there's ambiguous muck daubed on grunk's temple, there's grease around his mouth and he's _laughing._ both of them, in fact, are doubled over and wheezing for breath.

"his _face,_ oh my _god-"_

"i know, right? eat the rich. oh my god, that was so funny. you're hilarious, kiddo." warm and genuine, the smile on carson's face appears almost misplaced. he clutches a brown paper bag in one fist, face open and unconcerned, and (for the first time since that poser hit the floor) he looks truly happy.

"nic! mr. soot!" grunk barrels into nic's arms, who doesn't seem to know quite how to react. "that was just, just, the best."

"so, you think you'll learn? at least to control it would be nice." carson pipes up from beside the bed, and nic takes the opportunity to hold grunk out at arm's length.

"i don't know," he says, pragmatism slinking in. he looks crestfallen at the concept of actually being atypical as opposed to just riding shotgun on its benefits, and wilbur can't exactly blame the kid for that.

"i know a guy." nope, carson is determined. "'i'll pay for junior classes, explain your situation. you'll love it!'

"it's more fun than it sounds," wilbur butts in, which is a total lie because he's never been able to afford formal training for fucking guitar, let alone his powers. the others seem to appreciate it nonetheless.

"as in for kids? i think maybe i'd like that." adrenalin fading, grunk solemnly beams at wilbur and nic. he looks briefly fifteen under the banner of smile, not a victim prematurely aged by trauma and discrimination.

that is until tommyinnit bursts in, bringing with him a puff of dust from which grunk physically recoils like his arse is on fire.

"junky, we've got company. maybe two dozen looters by the storehouse on king's way." he pauses to wipe his brow and growls, "bloody hell, i swear the world's gone mad."

the change in grunk is immediate and palpable. he wipes his face and turns to junky.

"get me a map and visual, we'll have it back by sundown." the absurdity of it all silences wilbur before he can react, and carson's face is unreadable. "i need ty on point, are they coming from the west again?"

he sprints off down the hallway. tommy, a friend defined by being unfailingly chipper and always ready to chat, only dips his head to the adults briefly before following. a cacophony of triumphantly juvenile yelling drifts up the stairs. wilbur likes to think his childhood was rough, but these people play at war like it's a game.

"he's been a friend for a long time," nic murmurs against wilbur's ear with palpable smugness. "now you see why, huh?"

overcome, he closes his open mouth and allows a cheerfully brittle tween to escort them to a lift. they sit in sombre silence as the shield crawls by, watching the city that never sleeps begin its day.

"i think that went well," carson says with only the faintest touch of irony, "all things considered."

"when did you go?" a cursory glance through the one-way glass paints him a chilling picture of the rebuilding. every so often, the landscape is interrupted by a gaping pockmark surrounded by bright tags of graffitied mourning. it's hard to believe that the goal of the spate of attacks was anything but rampant massacre - but team make-a-wish are in charge for a reason.

when did he become so privileged?

"oh, not so far. last week to play a prank or two on the corps at their swanky dinner. then next christmas to get these weird southern candied things he likes." he holds out the bag to wilbur, who waves it off and motions him to keep on. "fine. i tried to get him to open up, i really did! at some point we talked about our _feelings_." they chuckle, conspiratorial. "being...trapped in an identity, and what that does to you. he was very, uh, sweet after we broke the ice."

there's a wistful glint in his eyes that wilbur is surprised to recognise as loneliness. "i always wanted a sibling-" he immediately covers his mouth in embarrassment. "shit! fuck! shouldn't have said that. sorry." interesting.

"nothing to be ashamed of," wilbur reminds him simply, filing it away, "but i'll keep it under wraps." carson blinks his gratitude, and wilbur wonders how he ever found him so intimidating. he really is just a good guy trying to do good things in a world that doesn't care, under a government ran by fools.

by the time they make it home, it's almost lunch. they take it in the downstairs cafeteria as a sort of artful morale booster, chatting with the drivers and legal team and office staff all alike. he's enjoying himself, in a grassroots kind of way, chewing steadily through a generic prepack and listening to the latest gossip.

mid-story, ryan sidesteps a burly volunteer and balances his tray on one elbow to lean over their table. he clicks his fingers, recalling something, and almost fumbles his sandwich. wilbur remembers he has horrible depth perception, owing to the single sky-blue eye. the effect is mesmerising.

of course they don't know each other too well, but wilbur has nothing but respect for his architectural acumen and the work he's been doing in reconstruction. it's nice to catch up - his presence only adds to the welcome return in domesticity.

"okay, i got it! it was for...carson, your sister called. she wants to know if you're coming home for christmas."

wilbur's stomach twists and plummets. carson, your sister. because, yes, carson has a sister. carson has always, by all accounts, had a sister.

"ah, thanks, i'll call her back. and then i said," carson continues, "you sound like you'd rather call it a dog and pony show! a dog and pony show, oh my god. needless to say they didn't call me back, but good riddance. a little respect goes a long way, don't you think?" a murmur of assent, barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears. "uh, wilbur, are you alright there?"

he can't breathe, he can't see, he can't think, and yet he feels better. he feels alive again. is that worrying, that it feels like his senses have been wrapped in cotton wool until this exact moment?

he pushes back his chair and stands shakily. it falls over, maybe? he grabs the world by its collar, fists it in both hands and twitches directly into schlatt's office.

**END OF ACT ONE**


End file.
